"It shows the marks of being cast by the cire perdu method, as all Huai bronzes were," pointed out Wang.
With a sense of being led into a trap, Lindsay nodded. She, too, had noted the very subtle marks of the lost wax casting process. As with the best of such bronzes, the casting marks had been incorporated into the design itself, enhancing rather than detracting from the final result.
"The clay core that the dragon was cast around passed the thermoluminescence test. Third century B.C. plus or minus a century," Wang continued. He waited half a beat and added smoothly, "Would you like to see the lab report?"
Even though she was watching Wang, Lindsay felt Catlin's sudden scrutiny. She knew what he was thinking. The thermoluminescence test was the benchmark of authenticity for all articles made of fired clay. The test was based on the fact that tiny crystals within the clay absorbed background radiation at a known rate. When heated by firing, the crystals gave up all their stored radiation in tiny flashes of light. Then the crystals began storing radiation all over again. When a sample of clay was reheated centuries later in a modern lab, the crystals once more gave up their stored energy. The energy that was released was measured, compared to a time scale and a date was assigned to the clay used in creating the objet d'art.
"Was a thin section of the bronze put under a microscope to see whether the patina has penetrated the bronze itself rather than simply being applied to the surface of the metal?" Lindsay asked quietly. It was the one test that men hadn't learned how to get around. Only time could root the patina deeply in the bronze itself.
Wang shrugged. "Why bother? The test I used is the standard in the field."
"For fired clay, yes," agreed Lindsay, her voice both pleasant and firm. "But a modern clay object can be irradiated until it will appear to be old on a thermoluminescence test."
"But you'd need very expensive X-ray equipment and a really thorough knowledge of modern testing to pull that off," objected Wang.
"It's been done," Catlin said dryly, entering the conversation for the first time. "Caused quite a stir, if I remember correctly. A museum participated in the X-raying just as a way to prove that copies and forgeries couldn't make it past their experts."
Wang shot Catlin a single look, then returned his attention to Lindsay.
"I can give you the name of two labs that specialize in testing the age of metal artifacts," Lindsay offered.
"Hell, that would take weeks," muttered Wang, shaking his head. Then he circled back on the argument from another angle. "Why would someone buy hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of X-ray equipment just to irradiate a bronze?"
"Is that how much it costs to fake a bronze?" Catlin asked, raising his eyebrows.
Wang's mouth thinned to a flat line at the implication.
"The why of it is simple," Lindsay said quickly, wanting to keep the discussion as pleasant as possible under the circumstances. "If the dragon is Huai, it's automatically placed in a very old, very valuable artistic tradition. On the other hand, if the dragon is modern, in terms of the marketplace its value is problematical. There is no definable market for a modern Chinese bronze, no matter how exquisitely made and artistically superb that bronze might be. Put another way, a modern bronze is worth whatever someone will pay for it."
Surprisingly, Wang's expression softened for an instant. He looked at the dragon. "Artistically superb, huh? So you liked it?"
"Very much," said Lindsay, hearing the wistfulness in her own husky voice. "But I won't bid on the dragon for the museum, Catlin, or myself. Not as long as the bronze is being sold as third century."
Silence stretched while Wang brooded over the crouching dragon. Then he pulled a pen from his pocket, turned over the card that proclaimed the dragon was more than two thousand years old and printed NFS neatly across the back of the card. Not For Sale. He propped the card up against the dragon's long, curving claws.
"That isn't necessary," Lindsay said softly, knowing that the gesture was costing Sam Wang a literal fortune. "I wouldn't have said anything to anyone who didn't ask. And if someone did ask, I would tell them exactly what I'm telling you I could be wrong. That dragon could be as old as it is magnificent."
Wang gave her a sideways look. "It could be, but the damage is done either way. When Mr. Chen discovered that you were one of the people here tonight, he asked to meet you. Your reputation has preceded you, as they say. We overheard what you said." As Wang shrugged, his smile turned down at the corners. "What's that old saw about eavesdroppers never hearing good news? Well, it's true in this case. Until I get a test run on that dragon's patina, I don't have a chance in hell of getting a decent price for it."
"I'm sorry," Lindsay said quietly. "Not for my opinion, but that you would suffer a loss because of it."
"The dragon's on consignment from Vancouver," Wang said carelessly, "so I'm not out more than the cost of insurance and shipping. Besides, I suppose it was worth it to see you at work. I've heard about your feel for bronzes, but frankly, I didn't believe it. Chen Yi was right. You're the best."
When Lindsay glanced at Yi, he bowed slightly, acknowledging her status as a respected expert.
"You do me great honor," murmured Lindsay, bowing her head in the Chinese fashion.
Mrs. Zhu burst into rapid Mandarin, asking Chen Yi what was being said.
Lindsay started to answer in Mandarin, then realized that just as she was supposed to pretend that she had never before met Yi, perhaps she shouldn't reveal her knowledge of Mandarin, either. The thought of such concealment was so foreign to her that she literally froze. In the end she waited silently, eyes downcast, trying to reassure herself that by not speaking she was actually being polite. The questions, after all, had been addressed to Yi, not to her; he was the respected male, while she was merely the foreign female whose status, no matter how great, could not equal that of any Chinese man, no matter how humble.
Catlin put his hand in the small of Lindsay's back. "If you will excuse us?" he asked politely, looking from Wang to the three Chinese. "There are other bronzes we should look at before the auction begins."
As they walked away Lindsay could feel the glances of the Chinese following her and Catlin. When they turned the corner and went back into the larger part of the L-shaped room, she made a sound of relief.
"Yeah," Catlin said into her ear. "Comrade Zhu could stare holes in bronze."
Lindsay sighed and relaxed against the warm hand that was guiding her. "Women rather like her must have sat in public squares knitting caps while the guillotine sliced its way through the French aristocracy," whispered Lindsay.
"Don't underestimate good old Comrade Pao at chopping time," Catlin said in an equally discreet tone. "I suspect he understands English quite well."
"Really?"
"When you and Sam were talking, Pao's eyes followed the conversation, not the speaker," explained Catlin. "When Sam was arguing about patina, Pao looked at the dragon. When Sam was arguing about thermoluminescence tests, Pao looked at you for your reaction."
"You mean Pao already knew I'd tagged the dragon as modern? He didn't have to wait for Yi's translation?"
Catlin nodded. "They had been standing there for nearly all of our conversation about the dragon. As none of them said a word to each other until I turned around and said hello to Wang, there was no opportunity for Yi to translate your words for his comrades.''
"Oh. Suddenly I feel better about not translating for the good Mrs. Zhu," Lindsay murmured. She glanced up, catching Catlin's eye. "Should I let on that I speak Mandarin?"
"Why not?" he said softly against her hair as they bent over a bronze. "Your background as a child in China is part of your value as an appraiser, so your knowledge of the language is hardly a secret. Go ahead and speak Mandarin. You have enough lies to keep straight without worrying about that."
"Well, at least these aren't among the lies," muttered Lindsay, gesturing to the inlaid bronze ovals resting on a bla
ck velvet cloth.
Like the oval harness pieces that Jackie Merriman had shown to Catlin, these bronzes were Ordos. Some were in the Coiled Beast motif, others were in the Animal Combat motif, with two animals locked together to make the obligatory circle. The inlay work was unusually well done, and unusually well preserved.
"Does your collection have similar pieces?" asked Lindsay.
Catlin made a sound that could have signified interest, disinterest or anything between. It was the sort of all-purpose noise collectors and connoisseurs used when they didn't want to be disturbed in their study of an objet d'art. Without irritation, Lindsay took the hint and stepped slightly to one side, allowing Catlin free access to the small table.
The long decorator mirror hanging on the wall in front of the table reflected not only the bronzes, but also Catlin's features as he moved from side to side in his study of the small oval pieces. Lindsay watched the shadows change on his face as he turned, the midnight shine of hair and mustache, the steeply arched eyebrows, the metallic glint of gold as light pooled in eyes surrounded by a thick frame of black lashes. It was not a peaceful face. The line of cheekbone, nose and jaw was too hard, too unforgiving. It was, however, an arresting face, a study in masculine planes and strength relieved only by the unexpected sensuality of full, sharply defined lips beneath the midnight gleam of mustache.
Gradually Lindsay became aware that she was not the only person studying Catlin's face in the mirror. On the other side of the table, at the same angle as she was but ten feet farther back, an Asian man stared at Catlin's reflection like someone who was confronting his imminent death. The man's skin was pale, glistening with sweat, and his mouth was slack. He turned away suddenly and retreated straight across the room, brushing by people and bronzes as he went.
Moving aside slightly to change her angle of view, Lindsay kept the man in sight as he reached the far end of the long room. He went straight to a group of Asian men, one of whom was Hsiang Wu. Lindsay couldn't hear the conversation, but from the agitated gestures of the man's hands and the startled turning of heads, it was clear that Catlin was the subject.
"Do you recognize anyone in the group besides Wu?" asked Catlin in a quiet voice. Then, harshly, "No. Don't look at me. Just answer."
Lindsay would have sworn that Catlin hadn't looked up from the bronzes, but his words made it clear that he had seen at least as much in the mirror as she had.
"They're too far away for me to tell, unless I study them openly. I could find out later from Wu if you like," she added, wondering how important it was.
"I don't think so," murmured Catlin, picking up and handing to her one of the small bronze ovals. "Yi will find out for us if we can't wangle an introduction from Sam."
"At least one of them won't need an introduction to you," Lindsay said, her voice low. She looked at the bronze Catlin had put on her palm, but it was the man's shocked, terrified face she was seeing. "He knows you, Catlin," she said flatly. "And he's scared."
Catlin's mouth curved into a small, chilling smile as he turned the bronze over on her palm.
"Do you recognize him?" Lindsay asked tightly.
Catlin took the bronze again, replaced it on the velvet and guided her to the next table, which lay in the direction of the man who had taken several long looks at Catlin and then fled as though hell had opened up before him.
Lindsay bit her lip against the temptation to repeat the question. She had seen fear too often in the past not to recognize it on the man's face now. That kind of fear was contagious at some primal level, making her heart beat faster. With each step closer that Catlin came, the man flinched and subtly drew back, putting more of the group between him and Catlin.
"What do you think of this one?" asked Catlin, bending over a bronze rice bowl.
"Genuine," Lindsay said in a dipped tone. "Like you."
"G.B.?" he asked, flashing her a smile and a glance from clear amber eyes.
"The rope pattern is done very well," she said grudgingly, giving the bronze her whole attention. "It looks strong enough to hang someone with."
Laughing softly, Catlin pulled Lindsay on to the next bronze display, a move that brought them closer to the man who was trying very hard to fade into the silk wallpaper. The pieces on display were three spearheads. They were very slender, with elongated, leaflike shapes. The design was both elegant and deadly, for the graceful contours of the spearheads concealed the architectural strength given to the weapon by the powerful central rib and harshly beveled edges. The sockets were decorated, and from each depended a small loop which could have carried a decorative silk tassel or a feathered plume.
"These," murmured Catlin, "I will buy."
Lindsay was grateful that the Museum of the Asias had a fine and extensive collection of bronze spearheads, for she knew she didn't have a chance of talking Catlin out of these. Part of her admired the clean lines of the weapons; the rest of her would rather the artist had expended his skill on something other than death.
"Without them, there would have been no Qin, no unified China, no Xi'an, no Mount Li, no history but barbarism," said Catlin, accurately reading Lindsay's expression. "Civilizations didn't just happen. They came at spear point."
"And they went the same way," she pointed out crisply.
Catlin's laugh was both startling and warm, as unexpected as the dragon crouched around the corner, out of sight but not out of mind.
"No argument there," he said. "But I still want those spearheads." Without changing his expression at all, Catlin asked, "Is he gone?"
It took Lindsay a moment to realize what Catlin meant. Discreetly she looked a bit to the right, where the group stood about ten feet behind Catlin.
"Yes."
"Recognize any of the others now that we're closer?"
There was a silence while Lindsay bent over the spearheads and simultaneously studied the group of men through the screen of her lowered eyelashes.
"Maybe. One of them might be a collector from Japan. Another could be a Korean collector I saw up in Vancouver just before I met you." Lindsay made a hidden, dismissing motion with her hand. "It's hard for me to say. They weren't clients or competitors when I first saw them, so I really didn't pay much attention."
"Have you seen anyone here who is a curator for any museum?" asked Catlin.
As he ran a fingertip along a spearhead that was surprisingly sharp, he heard Lindsay's breath come in and sensed her sudden intense scrutiny of the faces around her. The room was comfortably full but not crowded. People milled slowly, looking at bronzes and greeting associates.
"That's odd," Lindsay muttered.
"What?"
"There aren't any curators, yet I know of at least seven museums that would give a hefty portion of their acquisition funds for some of these bronzes. Sam Wang must know that, too." Lindsay frowned and looked around the room again. "Maybe the other museum curators came earlier, or will be coming in later."
Catlin made a neutral sound and continued looking at the spearheads. Lindsay's words had confirmed what he had already suspected tonight was a roll call of potential bidders on Qin's charioteer. There wouldn't be any legitimate curators present tonight. No museum employee would bid hundreds of thousands of dollars for acquisitions that might have to be turned back over to the rightful owner amid a huge scandal.
Private collectors, however, were under no constraint to display their acquisitions publicly and thus risk discovery. If the provenance were doubtful, the bronze would simply vanish into a vault or a very well-guarded home. If inquiries were made later, a bill of sale could be produced showing that the bronze in question had been resold and shipped to Switzerland. The trail would end there, for Switzerland was the great burial ground for any hopes of recovering stolen art. In Switzerland there was no restriction or tax imposed on imported art. As a result, anything that could be smuggled into the country was home free as far as the Swiss authorities were concerned. It could be le
gitimately and openly exported from Switzerland after a hefty export tax was paid, of course.
The fact that the art obviously hadn't originated in Switzerland and quite probably had been stolen and smuggled across international borders was of no interest to Swiss officials. Nor were the export forms the Swiss required very useful to someone tracing stolen goods. "Ancient Chinese bronze," was a rather broad category. A museum full of dubious goods could be concealed under that heading.
In matters of private wealth and profit, the Swiss were, as ever, accommodating.
"What do you think, Catlin?" asked Lindsay.
He glanced casually around the room. "I think we missed a row of tables."
She started to say that she had been asking about missing curators rather than missing bronzes, but after a look at Catlin's profile she pressed her lips shut and followed him. She confined her comments to the bronzes, unbending only to admire a particularly fine rectangular wine vessel. The combination of silver and malachite inlay brought the vessel's t'ao-t'ieh motif into stark reality. Full-faced, complex, the beast mask stared outward into the centuries, a dark shadow cast by a human soul.
The thought did not reassure Lindsay. It was one thing to understand intellectually that art reflected all that was human good, bad and neutral. It was quite another to look at art and see your own midnight fears looking back at you. Even so, she knew that the wine vessel was worthy of a position in any museum's collection. Next to the food canister, the wine vessel was the most outstanding ancient bronze in Sam Wang's collection.
With a half-hidden sideways glance, Lindsay watched Catlin, trying to decide whether he intended to have her bid on the bronze for him, or whether he would be satisfied with the food canister he had chosen.
"Relax. I have one similar to it," he said.
Startled, Lindsay faced him fully. "Stop doing that."
"What?"
"Reading my mind!''
Catlin's slow smile made Lindsay's pulse quicken in the instant before she reminded herself that it was an act, all of it, the touches and kisses and sexy smiles. Lies.
Tell Me No Lies Page 20
